


Things Unsaid, Chris/Karl rpf angsty schmoop PG-13 for Sangueuk

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Breakups, Infidelity, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Sickfic, Unhappy marriage, fic import
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:15:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter





	Things Unsaid, Chris/Karl rpf angsty schmoop PG-13 for Sangueuk

Things Unsaid—a birthday rpf featuring Chris/Karl for my favorite Captain Sangueuk, the amazing and gorgeous head of [](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/profile)[**jim_and_bones**](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/) . Happy Birthday, bb!

\--  
“I got Zach’s email today,” he said, hesitant. “I don’t think I’m going to make it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he told Karl. “This shoot is important.” He suppressed a cough, turning his face away from the phone.

“Yeah, but you only turn thirty once,” his voice said on the other end of the phone. He sounded truly contrite, really regretful—not like he didn’t pretty much whenever they talked, at least since they hadn’t so much broken it off as agreed. There were too many photos of Karl Urban looking all alpha male around Christopher Pine—at least if Karl wasn’t one hundred percent sure what he was going to do about Nat and the kids.

He’d said it wasn’t over, when he’d left for his shoot in Vancouver. Rather than argue, Chris had nodded along. He’d been tired, battling a cold that just wouldn’t leave—of course, breaking up with his not-boyfriend, because it wasn’t like he could admit to whatever they were anywhere outside the house, did nothing to improve his immune system. But he’d known it was done by the set of Karl’s shoulders, the downturn of his mouth, the conversations he had on his cell phone out on the patio, out of Chris’ hearing.

“Take care of yourself,” Karl had said, and lord but that had been trite, even if Chris knew he meant it. Karl wasn’t a liar, was always sincere, even if he didn’t always know what he wanted until it was too late, one way or the other. Take care of yourself meant _I’m not going to be around to do it_. Chris was love-sick, he wasn’t dumb.

He hadn’t done as Karl asked.

Hadn’t felt like it. Hadn’t deserved it, because what kind of thing was he to wish for some magical ending with Karl where things came out easy for Chris?

Nothing, that’s what he was.

“Really, it’s fine,” he repeated. “It’s not a big deal.” _I’m not a big deal. Not to you. I know that now._ Not that he said that part aloud. No sense in making things more pathetic than they already were, not when he could have had his eyes open to the truth from the start. There were kids. What had he been _thinking?_ He hadn’t. That’s all there was too it.

The phlegm burned like a fire in his chest and the urge to cough was too strong. “Karl,” he rasped out. “I’ve got a call, got to go, call you back later.” He hung up just in time to hack up half a lung, the phlegm green and half bloody. His eyes smarted and teared by the time he was done.

The soggy tissue landed with a wet plop on top of the others. He sank back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling before rolling onto his side to take in the room.

Almost out of Kleenex, and he’d run out of O.J. and cough drops. Ah, well—Zach had been trying to get him to meet him for coffee for days. He’d call him up, hang out for an hour, pretend all was well, then swing by Ralph’s and stock up on supplies.

Yeah—he’d call Zach just as soon as he had a quick nap.

\--

“You look like shit.”

“Nice to see you too, Zachary.”

“No, seriously.” His friend leaned over the table to put his hand on Chris’ forehead. “You feel like you have a fever, and you sound terrible, Chris. Seriously, you’ve had this cold for almost a month. When was the last time you went to a doctor?”

Chris leaned back and away. “I’m fine. He said it wasn’t the swine flu.” He’d seen the doctor the first week he’d had the cold, since he’d had an audition for a movie that was filming up north and couldn’t well travel if he’d had virus—but that was a month and a half ago, not that he’d tell that to Zach.

Zach rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you don’t still look like death incarnate.” He tsked as he leaned in and palmed Chris’ cheek before letting go. “Seriously. You’re supposed to be having a party Saturday night, not looking like Mr. Walking Pneumonia 2010.”

Chris sipped his coffee, then coughed. He knew he should have taken it black—all the cream was making him even more phlegmy. By the time he was done, Zach’s eyes were wide.

“Dude.”

Chris rolled his eyes and took a sip of the water he’d bought.

“Do not tell me you’re fine,” Zach interrupted before he could speak. “You’re sick as a dog and you’re pining over that … Kiwi,” he said, as if he really wanted to call Karl something mean but couldn’t come up with an insult no matter how hard he tried, “and you’re in no shape to get tanked on your birthday so that I can throw pretty people of both sexes at you to fuck, maybe both at the same time, at least in the shape you’re in now.”

He snatched Chris’ water out of his hand and screwed on the cap, then stole his phone and started punching through his contacts until he found the name of Chris’ doctor.

“Call,” he said, glaring at him from under the Quinto manicured eyebrows of doom. “I have pretty people lined up for you, Chris, and we’re not going to waste them because you’re too germy to go out in public.”

“Sleep with them yourself,” Chris rejoined, but he still took the phone. Maybe it was time to see someone—a doctor, that was. Zach could still sleep with the hookups. Chris just was not in the mood.

\--

He filled the prescription and took the first pill—drank some more O.J., peeled a few cheese sticks and had a banana before he crawled into bed.

The phone buzzed just as he was falling asleep.

“Wha…” he muttered, his voice half a croak.

“Hey … you didn’t call back.” He sounded like he didn’t know whether he was allowed to be mad—but wanted to be anyway, and fuck it but Chris was too tired to decide how he felt.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, because, well, he was. Sorry about every damned thing in the world, that it hadn’t worked out, that he’d fallen in love with a perfect goofball nerd of a god of a man who just happened to have kids and a wife, sorry that he’d backed Karl into that corner at that party and kissed him—sorry for all of it, really. “Got sidetracked, then fell ‘sleep, been running ‘round today and just got in…” he said, trailing off. Which was mostly the truth.

“You sound like I just woke you up.”

“Yeah,” Chris allowed, because he couldn’t think of any better response.

“Are you okay?” When Chris didn’t answer immediately, mostly because he was so fucking tired, Karl continued. “Chris?”

God. He hated the way Karl said his name, the way he stretched out the “I” in that way only people from New Zealand could do—it was too fucking close to all the things he was trying to let go.

“Yeah. Fine. No worries. Like I said, just woke me up, thas’ all,” he half-mumbled, half-slurred.

“You sound like you have a cold,” Karl pressed. “You did yesterday, too, and the week before that. That’s not the same one from before I left, is it?”

_Actually, it is, and I have a sinus infection and walking pneumonia because Zach’s a spot-on diagnostician, and the only reason I’m not in the hospital is that my doctor agreed that it would be a paparazzi shit storm if I tried to check in someplace._

Yeah. He wasn’t going to say that.

“I already went to the doctor’s. I’m fine, he gave me some meds.”

There was a beat—a pause—Karl trying to decide if he had the right to interrogate him some more— but he didn’t, and Chris held the phone away one more time as he suppressed a small cough and blinked at the ceiling.

“Look. Karl. I’m really sleepy, alright? I’m gonna go.”

Maybe he was being a coward by hanging up without promising to talk to him later—or something like that—but the phlegm was like lead in his head and his chest and he just wanted to roll up under the covers for a week, maybe more. That wasn’t too much to ask.

Not too much at all.

\--

The cavernous yawn of his fridge greeted Chris at nine forty-five in the evening. How could he be all out of O.J.? He’d just bought some, what … two days ago? Had it really been all that long?

He scratched the back of his neck, debated a shower, decided that it wasn’t worth it even though he knew very well that it would probably loosen up all the junk in his head. He’d just run out, grab more tissues and O.J., some makings for salad, some fruit, and then crawl back into bed.

Sounded like a plan. He jammed on a hoodie and sneakers, found his keys, wallet and phone, and drove to the store. Loaded the basket with tissues, a gallon of O.J., more damned bananas because they just went well with the salty cheese sticks that were all he really felt like eating right now, then threw in some apples and a few packets of ham because he should at least try to get some real food in his system, right?

Maybe he should get some lime jello. That would be good, it tasted all nice and cool, soothing and jiggly when it went down. Plus it was hydrating and shit, the doctor said he should get plenty of fluids. That came in the cups in the milk aisle, right?

The girl at the checkout line looked at him funny when he took out his wallet to pay, but he had to set it down when he started to cough, and then he couldn’t stop coughing, it hurt like a bitch, and his eyes were starting to water. He apologized to the poor girl, but then that got cut off too with a new cough and then this stupid disgusting gobbet of phlegm got caught in his throat, totally nasty, and he had to dig a tissue out of his pocket to spit because there was no way he was swallowing that.

“Sorry,” he finally managed again, then paid for his things. Great. It’d probably be all over Gawker by the time he got back to the house. He wondered if they’d treat it as a meth problem or crack. Shaking his head, he jammed his wallet back in his hoodie and dug out his keys, then headed out.

“Sir?”

He was halfway to his car when he heard it, spun around, looked, though it was the “Mr. Pine?” that made him turn. Trust the Ralph’s checkout girl to be polite, at least. Or maybe he just looked that shitty. And why wouldn’t she know him, it wasn’t like he didn’t come in here every week—like he hadn’t come in every Sunday with Karl to pick up the papers and food for what he called his “fry-ups” and Chris called his “grease-fest” but happily ate, because man, Karl could cook.

“Yes?” he said, wondering, dizzy. She was holding a bag.

“You forgot your orange juice.”

“Oh. Right.” He took the bag, let the loops slide up his arm and bang into the other, the one holding the rest of his stuff. “Sorry.” Because that’s what he was—sorry. Pathetic.

“Thanks,” he said, squinting at the name on her vest, because he’d of course left the house with neither contacts nor glasses. “Lindsey?” She nodded, a frown on her face. He fumbled the keys out of his pocket, then gave her a wave. “Well, thanks again, Lindsey, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached.”

She didn’t smile at his joke—she’d opened her mouth to respond—was responding, in fact, but whatever she said didn’t make sense and Chris felt suddenly all hot, cold, tingly, both heavy and untethered at once from his body, the hand holding his keys going numb.

_Did I lock the front door?_ he wondered, right before the checkout girl grabbed him by the elbow as he started to fall.

\--

“No… I told you, I can’t.”

Someone was talking. Someone sounded pissed, actually.

“Because he’s in the damned hospital and sick as a dog, that’s fucking why…”

Hunh. Sounded worried, whoever it was.

"No, I have no idea when. You’re just going to have to sit tight.”

Back to sounding pissed, that voice, all growly and tired-sounding and sad.

“Look. I didn’t ask you to come and I certainly didn’t tell you to bring them, I told you before I went up there …”

God. He was so tired. Someone was holding his hand, fingers worrying the underside of his wrist over and over until maybe Chris was just kind of play-dough, that was a nice kind of idea…

\--

“You’re an asshole.” With the accent, the _a_ sounded more like an _eh_.

He blinked a few more times at the ceiling, then swiped the crud from his eyes before a big, gentle hand took over the job—which then meant his eyes started to water, and then, of course, he was so fucking tired even though he’d just woken up and _fuck,_ he didn’t even know where he _was_ , and then Karl was running his thumb over the lines on Chris’ forehead just like he used to, except he wasn’t all smiling and bed-rumpled and sexy like he usually was.

Instead, he just looked angry and worried and tired.

“I thought I was a moron.” It came out raspy and weak, all cracked-sounding and shit.

“No,” Karl said, his thumb still tracing the lines, back and forth, back and forth, like he was reading something there that would tell him something he needed to know. He wouldn’t look Chris in the eye.

“A moron is merely someone who doesn’t go to the doctor for weeks on end and has walking pneumonia and doesn’t tell any of his friends how sick he really is.”

The thumb dipped down to the right, pressing into the creases at the side of Chris’ eyes, palm lining his cheek.

“An asshole,” Karl said, tongue wetting his lips, not in the least fixing the harsh rasp of his voice, “is someone who is a moron and then doesn’t eat or hydrate himself properly on top of everything else and passes out in the fucking , _Ralph’s_ parking lot, practically crushing the wee checkout girl in the process and causing a paparazzi explosion to boot.”

Chris licked his dry lips, trying for a response. “She wasn’t that small.”

Karl frowned and stared him straight in the eyes for the first time, his seat on the side of the bed such that he was angled close in over Chris’ body. _He could just lean in and…_ He shut down that line of thought.

“She wasn’t expecting a guy four inches taller than her to collapse on her, either.”

“I’m sorry?” It came out as a question, but really, he didn’t know what Karl wanted from him. He’d tried to give him his space, it wasn’t like he was going to call the man up and say _“I have a cold, come take care of me.”_ He wasn’t one of Karl’s kids, and in any event, they’d agreed they were basically over. Karl had the movie he was working on now and the rest of his life, and Chris … well, if he hadn’t yet moved on to the next thing, well, that wasn’t important.

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Karl’s face got all twisted and he got up from where he was sitting to go stare out the window even as he said “Don’t fucking apologize, Jesus.”

He’d have said something else—sat up a bit on his elbows, but whatever that did reminded his lungs that oh yeah, he could cough, so he did. And then coughed some more. By the time he was done, he’d curled over onto his side because it just hurt a little less that way for whatever reason and Karl was rubbing his back, though the I.V. line kept getting in his way.

Oh. Hospital. Right.

He balled up the tissues he’d just used, wiped off his eyes, tossed them into the trash can at the side of the bed with the ease of all his recent practice, felt himself get hauled into arms—into that smell of Old Spice and warm and home that he didn’t have rights to, not anymore—into Karl—hadn’t thought that would happen again.

“Don’t you scare me like that ever again,” he said, his voice too rumbly and loud in Chris’ ear, the sound all weird and loud because his Eustachian tubes were all funny from blowing his nose.

“It was just a cold, it wasn’t important,” Chris mumbled into his shirt, that plaid one he really hated and loved to tear off of Karl as soon as he could whenever Karl put it on.

Karl made some muted protesting noise—half dying animal, half growl. “Shut up. You’re still delirious and feverish, you. You’re fucking important, alright? You’re important.” He didn’t let go, not really, just shifted and twisted around until Chris was all turned and Karl’s back was against the wall of the room and Chris’ head was in his lap-- somehow. Karl was magic like that.

“Stupid asshole. You’re fucking important,” he said, his thumb worrying the lines over and over again at Chris’ forehead and eyes until he dropped into a doze. At some point, a phone buzzed and Karl answered.

“No, I can’t talk right now. … Because I just can’t. … Look. I need some time, alright? I’ll call you in a few days. Just give me some time.”

The fingers worrying Chris’ forehead didn’t stop.

\--

He was sweating by the time they got up the stairs, and his knees shook by the time they got to the bedroom. He sat carefully on the side of the bed, taking in the fact that his room had been cleaned—sheets changed, floor even dusted and mopped.

“Who?” he wheezed, then blew his nose, because the stupid antibiotics were make his snot totally runny.

“Zach,” Karl said with a nod, looking around as if he approved of the multiple boxes of tissues and bottles of water stashed all over the place. He ducked out of the room and Chris could hear the sound of the fridge open and close before Karl re-appeared. “Good. He got enough food for a week, maybe two.”

Chris nodded, then toed off his sneakers. After a second, he peeled off his socks and his tossed them at the laundry basket, then stood to take off his hoodie and put his phone, wallet and keys on the bureau.

He had on sweats and a tee, that’d work for a nap. Even after three days of I.V. antibiotics and fluids, he was still really tired. He’d check out what was in the fridge in a bit, then call Zach and thank him for the shopping, maybe invite him to come over and cook so he could be sure Chris was actually eating.

Karl was watching him as he looked over the room—as Chris looked back at him, he couldn’t help notice the way Karl frowned at the bruises he had from all the I.V. ports on both his arms. Wasn’t his fault he was more pale than a _Twilight_ vampire to begin with, and looked like death warmed over right about now.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thanks, for, um … coming down here, and … staying … and all of that, Karl. I know you must have had to rearrange lots of stuff. I … appreciate it, but … I think I’ll probably be okay now.”

Karl didn’t answer him verbally, not at the start. Instead, he took off his jacket, took out his own wallet and keys, turned off his phone, tossed them all on the bureau, kicked his boots in the corner. He shoved Chris back on the bed, manhandling them both under the covers and pulling Chris under his body in the same alpha-sprawl he’d always had back when they were, well—back when they _were._

He shoved his nose into the join of Chris' neck and his collarbone, whuffling there as he snuck one hand up under Chris’ shirt, pulling him closer as his calloused, long fingers critically fingered the lines of Chris’ ribs. “I thought we already established back at the hospital -- you are important.”

Chris couldn’t help circling one hand over a warm, lightly-furred bicep. Karl always smelled _lovely,_ like leather and cookies. “Yeah, but…”

“I meant it when I said it wasn’t over,” Karl said, his breath wet—heavy—hot—everything. “I just had to finish the movie, straighten things out with Nat and the boys.”

“But…”

He turned to look Karl in the face—his eyes crossed, but he tried anyway.

“Shut up, you moron.” Karl kissed him once on the nose. “Figures it’s the opposite problem with guys as with girls, not enough talking instead of too much.” He shoved Chris back into position. “I should’ve said, you should’ve asked, fact is, I was coming back.”

There wasn’t any answer but “Oh.” That and maybe a laugh, the first one he’d felt in a month and a half. Who cared that it dissolved in a wheeze, or that Karl knelt up, looking down with a look of concern as Chris waved him off.

“No—‘m’okay, really,” he said, pulling Karl to lie down again.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” Karl finally said. “What do you want, now that you’re not going to have Zach’s ridiculous party?”

Chris tightened his arms, shoved his own nose further into the fabric of Karl’s All-Blacks rugby shirt, the thick fabric sweet-smelling and warm. He didn’t answer aloud, but Karl looped his leg over Chris’ lower body a little bit tighter, pulled him a little more securely under himself. His breathing was a little constricted with Karl lying on top of him, but that was totally fine. 

Totally fine.


End file.
